


Some Things Never Change

by great_turkey_calamity



Series: ND Henry [3]
Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Arthur is very much alive, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Neruodivergent Henry, Neurodiversity, Nonverbal Communication, Not Beta Read, Philip is ableist and can smd, TW: emotional meltdown, TW: mild emetophobia, everyone is willing to fight for henry, internalized ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:21:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28561968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/great_turkey_calamity/pseuds/great_turkey_calamity
Summary: Henry and Alex visit Kensington Palace for the first time after getting engaged.Everything’s going swimmingly, until they attend a family dinner the day before they’re set to return to New York.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Arthur Fox/Catherine Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor, Martha Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor/Philip Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Series: ND Henry [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2021431
Comments: 8
Kudos: 114





	Some Things Never Change

**Author's Note:**

> Whew I haven’t published anything in a minute aksksksk here have this
> 
> Also, all BSL is italicized, happy reading!!

Henry hates coming back to Kensington, for many reasons. The first reason is the fact that he is held to infinitely higher standards than usual. No stimming around Philip or Gran, at risk of being mocked or reprimanded. No wearing sunglasses whilst out and about, even though the flashes from cameras of photographers sear his retinas and obscure his vision completely. Masking every time he leaves the palace, and coming back drained and upset. The second reason is that he is stripped of all individuality for the sake of maintaining the integrity of an institution that he was unwillingly born into. When he’s on royal family time, he dresses how they like, talks about what they like, and does whatever they want, just to keep himself out of fights. The third reason is because of his dysfunctional-at-best family, but he knows that they’re all trying their best to get along— that’s what he’s been _told_ , at least.  


They haven’t been back since this past December, and wedding planning has been, well, draining, to say the least. There was quite the nasty row about whether or not the ceremony would be held in a location of his and Alexander’s choosing, or in St George’s Chapel— the destination that Gran had picked out for him after Philip and Martha had their own wedding. After what felt like decades of back and forth, he’d finally given in. Their actual service will be at the lake house in Texas, and then, they’ll have a televised service at the chapel to assuage the masses; they didn’t have enough on their plates with only one wedding, apparently. He’s gone as far as to let Gran and royal attendants plan the entire thing; they’ve got enough to think about with the one they’ll _actually_ be wed in. 

Things are _different_ now. Henry’s father has finally returned from extended filming of an action film— something about a frontiersman who’s attacked by a bear and has to find his way back to civilization after being left for dead in the North American wilderness. During the proposal, he’d been trodding through the snow somewhere in Kananaskis Country. During Henry and Alex’s stay at Kensington, Arthur will, technically, be meeting Alex for the first time. They’ve had several conversations over the phone, and Alex has drifted in and out of FaceTime calls, so they’re familiar with one another. Things are just so much more _personal_ when they’re face-to-face, though. There’s also the added obstacle of Philip being there throughout their stay. They’re usually able to schedule around one another, but it seems that things were unavoidable this time around. 

“Everything’s gonna be okay.” Alex murmurs to him, and it’s then that Henry realizes that he’s been absolutely decimating the rubber stretch ball in his hands. David keeps nudging at his leg, and he finds himself reaching down to pet and reassure the pup on occasion. He can’t quite recall the last time he felt this anxious, and it’s eating away at him, consuming him bit-by-bit. 

“How can you be certain?” He asks back, just as quiet, the inconspicuous black vehicle they’re in creeping around the corner and towards the palace gates.   
  


“Because we’ll have each other, and that’s just enough to get by.” Alex replies, smooth and easy, like he doesn’t know that he makes Henry’s heart flutter with every word, or that he can move mountains with his smile. 

He isn’t quite sure how it happens, but his anxiety lessens then. He tucks the rubber ball into one of the pockets of his trousers. “I do suppose you’re right about that.”

“Haven’t you learned by now that I’m _always_ right?” Alex jokes. For the first time since getting off the plane, Henry looks at him. He’s dressed a little nicer than usual, but he’s not going out of his way to impress anyone; a pastel yellow button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the first few buttons undone, skinny navy chinos, and white sneakers that he’s taken a bottle of cleaner to. He’s started wearing his glasses more, as of late, and they frame his soft face wonderfully. He’s familiar, with his soft heart and wild mind; he is the source from which all light pours into Henry’s life.   
  


He chuckles. “I’ve learned to say you are even when you aren’t.” 

“Precisely.” Alex breathes, pecking his cheek. “Everything’s gonna be okay,” He says again, still trying to reassure Henry of this fact.

Henry smiles, slotting their hands together, squeezing gently. “I know.”

The past week has been— well— it’s been a lot. Both physically and mentally. Whilst there’s been good to come out of it, there’s also been bad. To start with the good, Alex and Henry’s father have been getting along beautifully. With all the talking they’re doing, he’s surprised that they haven’t run out of things to say yet. Arthur has pulled him off to the side several times now, going on and on about how excited he is that Alexander is joining their family; Alex has echoed his statements behind closed doors. They’ve also done quite a bit of charity work, making generous donations to the SWARM collective, the UK Gay & Lesbian Immigration Group, and Gendered Intelligence. Despite negative news coverage from more conservative media outlets, it felt absolutely invigorating to give speeches in support of immigration, of queer and trans immigrants and youth, of sex workers; it all left him with a buzz that didn’t wear off for hours after leaving the various events he’d attended with Alex. 

Unfortunately, there’s bad that comes with every little bit of good. To say that he’s been overstimulated is an understatement; he’s been running on empty for days, now. Camera flashes, reporters shouting over one another to get his attention, social events stacked back-to-back— it’s all just too much to handle. He’s got this lingering sensation of something creeping and crawling under his skin. Everything feels off, feels wrong, leaves him all woozy and uneasy. He can recall going nonverbal, signing with Alex and his parents, cutting the tags out of his tops and trousers because the nonstop scrape and scratch of the fabric against his skin was enough to make him scream, how standing under scalding water in the shower was the only thing capable of grounding him and making all the disgusting, uncomfortable sensations disappear for a while. He’s also aware of the fact that Philip’s been avoiding him like the plague, and that when he’s come near, their interactions have been anything but positive. Nasty looks and rolled eyes— Henry always feels like he’s wronged him in some way, but has no idea what he’s doing to elicit such responses.  
  


He’s been worried about tonight for the entire week; his mother’s been insistent on all of them sitting down and having dinner as a family for a while, now. Thankfully, Gran’s chosen to stay at Buckingham Palace, but, as previously stated, his relationship with Philip is still very much on the rocks. They’ve been making simple, polite conversation, talking about their personal projects over their entrees and sides of slow-roasted vegetables.

“So Henry,” Arthur asks, dabbing at his lips with a napkin. “This week’s been quite an eventful one for you.” He starts.

_The past five months have been, really_ , he signs in response. He still feels so drained from earlier in the week; today has been his only true day of rest since arriving at Kensington, so he’s trying his damnedest to recharge his batteries. _What, with the wedding planning and all._

_I bet,_ Arthur starts, switching to BSL seamlessly, just as he has a million times before in similar situations. _I remember going through the same process with your mother. Talk about overwhelming._

_Oh, stop it,_ Catherine interjects. _You loved every bit of planning it all out._

_Katie dear, I was terrified of messing up in front of your mother. That old bat was ready to send me to the gallows over the slightest errors._

_I would very much appreciate it if you didn’t call my mother an old bat, darling._

_I apologize, it slips my mind from time to time._

_Believe me,_ Catherine signs, expression on her face worn and tired. _It slips my mind as well._

_As I was trying to say, well, communicate_ , Arthur starts over, looking back to Henry. _Aside from wedding planning, have you got anything planned? Anything in the works?_

_Nothing in particular,_ Henry responds, trying to think back to any possible projects of his. _Still editing my final manuscript before sending it in to the publishing house._

_Might we get a snippet or two sometime soon?_ Arthur asks, smiling slyly, and it elicits a snort from Alex.

_He barely lets me in the office to bring him food and water— he’s been very private about his novel._

_That’s how you know it’ll be good, though_ , Bea signs. He’s always loved the way his sister signs— her hands don’t tremble like their father’s, and it’s not quick and mechanical like their mother’s. Alex uses as much shorthand as he can, just for the sake of fitting more words into a shorter amount of time. The way Bea signs is unlike the others; full of energy and flowing beautifully; it’s like singing without any words. _Hazza always does his best work when he’s sequestering himself away._

“Why must you always make things so complicated for others, Henry?” Philip finally says. Henry knows that he’s been holding it back for quite some time— he’s never been able to stand it when Henry’s signing with the rest of the family. It’s not an issue of Philip not knowing how to use sign language— he learned at the same time that Beatrice did— he just has a complete lack of empathy for Henry’s situation, as well as a deficit in respect of his needs and accommodations. “Surely you’re embarrassed when you put on this little act for attention, time and time again?”

Henry is in such a state of shock, that he doesn’t even know where to start. He looks around the room; Alexander looks ready to jump across the table and put his hands on him. His mother looks mortified, and his father looks gravely disappointed. Martha’s got her face in her hands, her shoulders sinking with a deep, unguarded sigh.

“I beg your pardon, Philip?” Arthur says aloud, his tone anything but pleasant. Alex slips his hand beneath the table, placing it on Henry’s knee; he can feel his heart in his chest, locked within his rib cage and threatening to break free with every beat.

“Why must we accommodate to his so-called _needs_ ,” He sneers, not shrinking back at Martha’s dirty, bordering on enraged look. “Whenever he has proven in both private and public spheres that he is perfectly capable of holding himself to the same standards as a _normal_ human being?”

Henry is so shocked by the malice in his own brother’s voice that he feels as if he could burst into tears at any moment. He’s not sure what to do— he’s never really sure what to do or say in moments like these, so he diverts his gaze to his hands, folded and shaking in his lap. 

As usual, Alex is the first one to defend him. “Every single time you open your mouth, I’m shocked by the new low that you manage to stoop to.”

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion—“

“And I don’t recall _anyone_ asking for _yours_ , you ostentatious little shrike of a man.” Bea spits, voice somehow managing to sound like ice and acid at the same time. He can hear the wobbliness in her voice, and isn’t sure if she’s on the verge of crying, screaming, or both.

“Beatrice—“ Catherine starts, her voice hesitant, not wanting the argument to progress, but also fully aware that her daughter is in the right.

“No, no, Kate,” Arthur replies, leaning over the table in a way that makes Henry shrink back in his seat. “Let her finish.”

“You’ve always ridiculed and made fun of Henry for things that he can’t control, and I’m bloody _sick_ of it,” Bea resumes, voice booming all throughout the room and echoing off the walls in a way that makes Henry retreat further into his shell. He props his elbows up on the table and covers his ears with the palms of his hands, stomach roiling from overstimulation and anxiety. “What does it fucking—“

“Watch your language!” Catherine reprimands.

“I said what I meant, Mum!” Bea shouts back, sounding frantic and frazzled. She turns back to Philip, completely out of sorts. “What does it fucking _matter_ if he’s got odd habits or different ways to calm himself down? If certain textures, foods, and smells make him ill? If he’s sensitive to light and sound? Why does it _matter?_ ”

Silence fills the room. Alex is rubbing his knee. Henry’s arms are shaking with the force being used to keep his hands clamped over his ears. It’s all absolutely horrid. Too loud. Far too much to handle. 

“ _Answer me!_ ” Bea demands, and Henry has to fight his urge to get up and leave right then and there. 

“His antics do nothing but bring shame and humiliation to the name of this family!” Philip bellows, and something thuds against the table; a cup? A fist? It’s difficult to tell, but the vibrations can be felt throughout the table.

“What do you think you’re doing with this outburst, then?” Martha asks him. “Protecting the integrity of the crown by acting like a child? Do get _over_ _yourself_ —“

It’s then that Henry wordlessly rises up from the table, gives a shaky, curt nod, and hauls himself out of the room, bustling down the first corridor he stumbles upon, tears stinging his eyes. He had to get out of there— he had to, he had to, he had to. It felt like his sanity depended on it. He can’t comprehend why his brother— one of the few people in this world that he’s supposed to be able to confide in— continues to shame him, day in and day out. It hurts, worse than swallowing splinters or having heaps of salt flung in his eyes.

Eventually— when he’s well-hidden from the rest of the family, and feels as if he couldn’t possibly walk any further— he sinks to the ground, pressing his back firmly against the wall. His breathing starts becoming more and more erratic as he tries to self-regulate, tries so, so hard to hold himself together. Sobbing, he exerts himself, back pushing against the wall at he grabs at his neck. That doesn’t work, so he goes back to folding his hands together like he had been at the dinner table, squeezing so hard and tight that his knuckles go white and his palms shake. It’s not working; nothing is working, and he can’t stop crying. He takes things in a different direction, then, making himself as small and compact as possible, wrapping his arms around himself whilst rocking back and forth. 

He hates this. Hates, hates _hates_ it. He feels like he can’t breathe, like he needs to scream, even though he knows nothing will come out. Hot tears are rolling down his cheeks and neck, and he’s hiccuping, and everything feels so, so wrong. He regrets wandering so far into the palace just to be alone; he regrets coming back to London altogether. He can’t count all of his current regrets on both hands. Now he’s alone, and overwhelmed, and upset, and afraid, and—

And he can hear footsteps approaching him at rapid pace. He tries to cry out for them, not caring who it might be, and hears the noise die out as a strangled noise in his own throat. 

“Henry,” Arthur calls out, his voice muffled, but still fairly audible. “Hazza, son, where are you?”

He tries to reply, but can only produce the same sound. It’s hard in moments like these, to not beat himself up, to not foist the same ableism onto himself that his brother just used against him. He's tired of holding it back, but he’s also so, so tired of making excuses for behaviors that are painful to hold back. All of his effort goes into masking, and he just can’t do it anymore. 

The footsteps grow closer and louder, until Arthur is crouched in front of him, studying him for a moment, trying to decide what his best plan of action. Henry immediately reaches out for him, not caring about the embarrassment that’s sure to come afterwards, just needing comfort. He doesn’t usually do this— he doesn’t usually crave contact when all of his senses are being rubbed raw at once— but he feels like he needs it. 

“Can you stand up, son?” Arthur asks, helping Henry into a standing position when he nods. “What do you need right now?” He continues; he knows his father has long since memorized what stims he uses when he’s upset, but the fact that he’s actually bothering to check in and make sure makes him feel that much better. “Pressure and rocking?”

Henry nods again, sobbing when Arthur takes him into his arms, holding him close, gentle, and tight. Slowly, his father starts swaying back and forth, not shushing him as he cries.

“Let it out, Henry.” Arthur coos. “It’s okay, Philip’s just left. He won’t hurt you again.”

“I’m sorry,” He whimpers, clutching the fabric of his father’s shirt in his fist. He’s ruined everything, all because he can’t suck it up and save face like a normal bloody person; no wonder Philip can’t stand him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _I’m sorry.”_

“Oh, my sweet boy,” His father sighs, squeezing him just a bit tighter, sounding choked up. “Don’t apologize— you haven't done anything wrong.”

“Then why does this happen every time I come home?” Henry croaks, practically vibrating with anger and pain. “I don’t understand why he does this to me; how do I get him to stop acting so cruel towards me?” He asks, gasping as he sways from side with Arthur. “How do I fix it?”

Arthur hums. “I wish there was a way to fix it Haz, I really do. There are some things you just can’t change about people, and well— this is how your brother has always been, and I suppose this is how he’ll continue to be, unless he takes the time and effort to change.”

Henry can’t help the sob of pure anguish that leaves his mouth. Between the lack of understanding, and the hideous, gut-wrenching shame, he just can’t handle it.

“Shh, wee lad,” His father continues. “He won’t be coming here anymore. This place— as cold and impersonal as it may feel at times— is your home. Everyone here loves you tremendously, and we’re all willing to whatever makes you most comfortable. Your brother has shown his lack of compassion time and time again; your mother and I have decided that it would be in our best interest to send your brother off when you and Alexander come to visit from now on, or at least until he stops acting like a child.”

“I—“ Henry stutters, gasping for air. “I don’t want things to get worse between us.” He explains. “I know things are already quite bad, but I just— I still care for him, despite it all.”

“Oh, lad, such a big heart you’ve got,” Arthur praises, rubbing Henry’s back in an attempt at soothing him. “Pip understands that time apart is what you two need— things should be right as rain by this next Christmas.”

“You think so?” Henry questions, hating the way his voice wobbles, but so, so desperate to know if this is the truth. 

“I know so,” His father replies. “Martha’s sure to knock some sense into him by then.”

“I certainly hope that’ll be the case.”

There’s no telling how long they stand there; it feels like hours, ages and ages. Arthur hugs him until he feels like nothing more than a bag of bones. Alex stumbles upon them after a while, and his father is allowed a break. The hours after fade by in flickers; a piping hot shower, migraine medication, a few episodes of Bake Off whilst he cuddles with Alexander and David in bed— it’s all quite hazy. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, only the feeling of his fiancé’s warm lips pressing to his temple, his mind somewhere far, far away.

The next evening, on the flight home, David snores soundly in his lap whilst Alex works on a paper for his advocacy course. All the television static in his head feels like it’s finally gone slack— he can finally breathe again. He gazes out the window; he’s always found that the sky is far more odd when he flies at night. Deep black fading into navy blue, stars standing out in a way that he really doesn’t even know how to describe. The clouds almost look like puffs of smoke, from this angle, and skyscrapers light up the world below them, brilliant little flashes of light. 

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Alex comments, and Henry knows that he would be startled clear out of his skin, if it weren’t for the fact that his lover's tone is so unbelievably gentle and soft.

“Quite,” He mumbles in return, his whole body relaxing a bit with the pressure of a head resting on his shoulder. “This might be one of my favorite parts of the trip, if I’m being honest.”

Alex is silent for a moment, and Henry briefly worries if he’s stoked some sort of guilt inside him. “I still can’t believe he said that to you.”

“Oh, it’s alright.” Henry replies, kissing the top of his head.

“It’s really not,” Alex insists, tone going from tender to incandescent in no time at all, as if someone’s flipped a switch. “You don’t have to forgive him, H. He’s a complete dick.”

“Oh, I don’t forgive him at all.” Henry responds, clear and honest. “In fact, I’m still quite cross with him. When I said ‘ _it’s alright_ ’, I didn’t mean that I was willing to make an excuse for him. I meant that although it hurt me rather deep inside, I can’t bring myself to be mad about it anymore. If he wants to make horrid decisions and lose me in the process, then I suppose that’s his problem, isn't it?” He elaborates. “I’ve clung to the idea that I need to put on a facade for the sake of others for so long now; it’s high time that I live authentically.” He declares. “I want to make a large donation to a charity— I’m thinking the Autism Science Foundation.”

When he shifts in his seat, he finds Alex staring at him, a look that Henry can’t quite read settled on his face. 

“What’s that look for?” He asks, smiling shyly.

“You are the strongest, most resilient man I have ever met,” Alex says, thumb brushing along the back of his hand. “And I love you to pieces.”

Henry feels the color rush to his cheeks as he fails to bite back his smile. “I love you too,” He replies, leaning in to peck Alex’s lips. “To bits and pieces.”

Alex chuckles, curling further in on Henry, trying to steal as much warmth as he can; it’s adorable really, how he always seems to run cold. 

“I’m so glad we’re finally heading home, sweetheart.”

Inhale, exhale.

Out with the negatives and the past, and in with the wonderful, remarkable now. 

A squeeze, and one more peck, just for good measure.

“So am I, lovie.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: @bi-disaster-fsotus


End file.
